


Camden Town

by itstonedme



Series: Camden Town [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF, The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Elijah Wood - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU crossover fic. Casey post-aliens, on holiday in England. Casey Connor is not a virgin in this story, <i>really</i> not a virgin.  Inspired by an actual goth-trending young man glimpsed in Camden Market in the Spring of 2010.  Originally posted two months later on LJ <a href="http://itstonedme.livejournal.com/44671.html#cutid1">here</a> with reader comments.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: A work of fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camden Town

On a cloudy Saturday afternoon, Casey asks the bus driver which stop he should get off at that's closest to the Camden Town Market.

"That'd be right here," he's told, so he hops off. Immediately, he wades into the busy sidewalk commotion of a London bank holiday weekend, slipping his camera protectively inside his wind breaker and zipping up.

Against every odd he's figured his parents placed on him, he's in England with their blessing, a graduation gift after the hellish year that was. Somewhere along the journey of raising their boy, his folks have come to realize that Casey Connor, their only son – bookish, smallish and prone too often to wearing a topographical map of bruises and injuries home from school – has proven this past year that he can hold his own in the world. 

And then some. 

And so Casey is in London, adjusting to the photo negative world that is British traffic, minding all gaps, looking first right instead of left, and burrowing his nose deep into a pocket-sized _London A to Z._

*

It pays to keep one's head up, what with all the bustle. Otherwise, Casey wouldn't have noticed The Count.

That's the name that's launched immediately in Casey's mind upon seeing the black-clothed figure hanging back from the sidewalk in an old carriage entryway. It's the face that catches Casey's breath at first; smooth and carved, sure of its compelling beauty, eyes that look out beyond all those cast his way, for Casey's not the only one drawn to look more closely. He's a young man in his mid-twenties, and the manner of his dress is gothic Bram Stoker: long untied hair crushed under a flat-brimmed top hat, ruffled silk shirt open to his chest beneath a vest and mourning coat, gloved hands holding a walking stick, tight jeans fitted into heavily heeled and buckled boots. It strikes Casey that The Count must be waiting for someone, for his eyes are on the crowd, and they pass over Casey as quickly and with as much indifference as every other face he's blithely scanning. For a moment, Casey experiences a moment of disequilibrium; part of him wants to grab his camera and freeze the amazing beauty of the young man, part of him wants the sidewalk to tilt itself right again.

Casey walks on, letting the image of the young man prickle the back of him, despairing that someone so nattily hip can only figure in his life as a casual image he'll remember for years, the type of souvenir that gets taken out at night in an empty bed. 

He sees a bank machine ahead on his left and stands to wait his turn, eventually sliding his card into the reader when the time comes, and he withdraws some pounds to replenish his dwindling reserves. 

It's while he's stashing the notes, looking up to make sure no one's really watching, that he sees The Count strolling towards him, arm-in-arm with a petite blonde in a gothic get-up the perfect counterpoint to her companion's. If not for their decidedly modern attire, they might be a couple out of an Edith Wharton novel, taking in the town air, The Count's walking stick tucked neatly beneath the arm she daintily holds, his head angled inwards to listen to whatever she is telling him.

_Stokely would fucking die if she could see these two,_ Casey thinks. It's a picture too perfect to let go.

As they stroll on past him, Casey removes his camera from inside his jacket. He hangs back at least thirty feet, glad for once that his size allows him to disappear even more into the crowds that jostle his shoulders. 

And so he tracks them because the day is free and their leisurely wanderings allow Casey enough time to frame and shoot all the interesting angles of canal boats moving through the locks, of the weeping willows sheltering the arched walkways over the river, of vendors hawking art and knickknacks and tourist junk, of tattoo parlours and goth shops and cafes along the sidewalks. He follows them as they stop and chat, and it seems The Count is known, for they stop and chat with shop owners and food sellers and waiters a lot until finally they arrive at a patio above street level, settling into seats for a luncheon repast.

Casey takes the opportunity to grab a coffee and find a loo so that he can return to his lookout while they dine.

Eventually, the couple is joined by another man, a short stocky fellow replete in biker leathers and a dyed Beckham-style mohawk. He kisses the girl and kisses The Count ( _whoa, on the mouth,_ Casey notes) and joins them for an ale and an awful lot of cigarettes. 

The better part of an hour gets killed this way, and Casey figures that while the discreet snapping he has been able to fire off are pretty sufficient for impressing Stokely, they aren't quite sufficient in satisfying him. The distance is still too great, there's always a better angle…

So he waits. And presently, the trio rises, and Casey is a little surprised (and a lot pleased) to see that The Count sheds the girl, who parts his company on the arm of the leather dude, and The Count wanders off on his own.

Casey follows.

And follows.

The angle of the sun, which has played peek-a-boo with the clouds all afternoon (Casey hates the sun when he's shooting; the light contrast is always a pain), has decidedly shifted, and Casey begins to wonder how long he has been tracking the guy. Three hours? More? They seem to have now threaded their ways through the entire market but somehow, like a hound on a scent, Casey can't quit the chase. 

Then The Count stops. Right in the middle of the crowded sidewalk on the perimeter of the market. He stops, and turns his head sideways, looking down as if he's waiting. No, as if he's _sniffing_ the fucking air. 

Casey freezes and throws his face into the nearest sidewalk stall, a wall of sunglasses in every colour and contour. _Fuck!_ he thinks. _Fuck!_ Is the guy onto him?

His face is heating up and his heart races as he sees The Count turn and begin to walk back in his direction. Casey steps further into the display, angling his back away from the curb. "Just looking," he says to the pink-spiked sales girl who's approaching to hit on him.

Seconds pass and from the periphery of his vision, he waits for The Count to walk past the shop. It's taking forever, though, and Casey's beginning to think he might have been ducked when a voice leans into his right ear. "Seen enough?" it asks. "Come to a decision, 'ave ya?"

Casey's both frozen and burning and stares at the rack. Like the eyes of a dragonfly, a hundred sunglasses reflect The Count hovering behind him.

"Sometimes," The Count continues, "one just 'as to _commit_ , know what I mean?" He inhales deeply, sucking in whatever scent Casey's exuding.

And then he walks away.

_Well, fuck,_ Casey thinks shakily. 

*

The Count walks on, his gait never changing its leisurely hip roll, his walking stick held at waist height. Not once does he look back, because there's no question – for either of them – that Casey will follow. 

He leads back past the bistro patios along the canal walk, up under the arching willows where the path crests the waterway, down the other side and back into the fray of the market. They thread past the outdoor food vendors, past the brickbrack of shops hawking garden whirligigs, past henna artists, on into the warrens beneath the old warehouses and past the Asian kitchens. At the end of the tunnelway is a shop, its open storefront flanked by glass showcases housing some of its offerings: a mannequin in Victorian skirt, her leather bustier beneath a ruffled blouse and a dog collar from which hang ropes of chains throttling her skinny plastic neck. 

Into the shop The Count walks, nodding to a sales clerk on the right, the cashier at the back, on deeper into the store, back towards the changing rooms. 

Casey slows, but he follows. 

"'Day, love," the sales girl smiles. She's not looking to stop him.

At the back of the store and with a flourish, The Count sweeps back the changing room curtain and steps inside, turning to wait and hold it open so that Casey, who has now hesitatingly caught up, can pass beneath his arm before he swirls it closed. He walks to the padded bench at the back of the small room and sits, laying the walking stick beneath the seat and leaning against the wall so that he can stretch his legs out atop the padding. Crossing one boot over the other, and flipping back the skirt of his coat, he tips his chin to one side and smiles coyly at Casey. "So?" he smiles.

"Um..."

" _'Um',_ " The Count interrupts, tipping his head back and gazing into space as if tasting the word. " _'Ummmm'._ " He purses his lips. "P'haps we could try for a little poetry." Glancing at Casey , he pats his thigh. "Come sit," and he cocks his head to one side, sweeping his hat off his head and setting it crown-side down on the carpet.

Casey hesitates only a fraction of a beat before hoisting a leg and straddling The Count's thighs just above his knees. 

There is, after all, this notion of commitment.

Raking his hair, The Count continues. "What if, instead, you were t'say, _'I'd like to make you cummmm, have your cock up me bummm, make your blood boil and thrummmm.'_ Do any of those verses focus your thoughts a bit more sharply?"

Casey stares at him, at his mouth more precisely. He is completely transfixed by all the rounded sounds of The Count's speech, the "th"s that are "f"s, the shaved endings, the little gap where top lip doesn't quite meet lower, the curling tongue hidden just within. All of these things he processes in a heartbeat, plus the fact that this guy thinks he's the shit and can't help talking it. "Fuck," he whispers, then curses himself for coming across like a monosyllabic idiot.

"Yes!" The Count exclaims happily, tapping a leather finger against Casey's chest. "Precisely what I was thinking!"

His amusement forces Casey to glance up to where crinkles frame The Count's eyes. 

"Here?" Casey asks. "Right _here?_ " He glances at the curtain.

"Privacy with a hint of lascivious risk. Rather a nice combination, don't you think?" The Count's leather fingers trail to the opening of Casey's jacket and slide the zip downwards, curling around the camera strap. "Let's put this aside for the time being," he says, lifting the band. 

Casey ducks. "Careful," he whispers.

"Yes, can see why," The Count replies, carefully placing the camera within the bowl of his hat. He turns back to Casey and curves a finger under his chin. "You nervous, pet?"

Casey hesitates before shaking his head.

"I think you are," The Count disagrees with a chuckle. "I like that. Ups me ante, if you get my meaning."

Casey glances at the curtain again. 

"Pay 'em no mind," The Count dismisses. "They know not to come into a changing room that two people enter. Ever."

"Especially if you're one of the two people?" Casey asks. 

" _Especially_ so," The Count smiles coquettishly. "So," he prompts again.

Casey looks back at him. "Um..." he says without even thinking.

"Oh _dear,_ " The Count whines, "back to that, are we?" He brings his fingers to his teeth and removes one glove, then the other, dropping both atop Casey's camera. He shooes Casey with both hands so that he might shuffle his ass along the padded bench and lie on it, and Casey scoots back obligingly to straddle his calves. The Count unclasps his buckle and the diagonal zip that wraps deep into the groin of his low-slung jeans and digs out his cock and balls. "There," he sighs, at what Casey can only presume must be the liberation of a dreadful confinement. "Now bend your back like a good love, and suck me."

Whatever fantasies Casey has been harbouring for the better part of the afternoon, they haven't included quite so abrupt and blunt a proposition as this, and he blinks in surprise. "That's it?" he asks.

The Count scrunches his neck to look down at his business, then back up at Casey. "Normally I'd take umbrage at such a comment, but given your linguistic limitations, I'll allow you another chance."

Casey shakes his head, frowning urgently, eyes wide. "No!" he hisses, mindful of the traffic the other side of the curtain. "I mean, we just get into it like that? I don't even know your name."

The Count props himself up on his elbows. "I'm sorry, love." He extends a hand. "Bit unromantic of me. Didn't think it mattered. Name's Orlando. You're very sweet. When I gaze into the limpid pools of your bewitching eyes, my soul begs to drown in them. Your skin is fairer than the sweetest _crème fouettée,_ and your lips..." His eyes fix upon Casey's mouth as he kisses the reluctant knuckles he's gripping. "Your lovely, velvet lips were destined by the gods to spout sonnets for the ages and, one hopes, find it within their grace to sink sweetly upon my most humble prick."

Casey's brows furrow. "Are you fucking with me?"

"Erm, I am." Orlando smiles softly. "What's your name?"

"Casey."

"How brilliantly Yank," Orlando murmurs. "I do like that, Casey. And despite my obnoxious blah blah, I do like you." He crooks a finger towards where his penis is eagerly warming to the day's events. "What say you, mate? Are we now done with the foreplay?"

Casey jerks a nervous nod, and his eyes drop down to where – speaking of velvet – the head of Orlando's cock is inching nicely through its cowl, and he can't help thinking that even Orlando's dick, with its tiny little gold stud, is the height of fashionable statement and just yearning to be touched. A fine wisp of dark hair trails upwards from it under the tails of the black silk shirt and vest Orlando is wearing, the hint of some type of tattoo peeking out beneath the rumpled fabric. 

For a moment, Casey's hands hover above Orlando's groin, and then they sharply descend, rucking the fabric upwards past an inked sun burst and recessed navel to an arching ribcage.

"That's my boy," Orlando gasps, throwing his head back. 

Casey's hands stroke up under the shirt as he leans in and takes the head of Orlando's cock into his mouth, fingers wrapping around a heaving ribcage, and his lips press back foreskin as his tongue swirls around the smooth little bead.

"Gu....god!" Orlando chokes out. "You're not as bloody shy as you look." 

Casey's nose is rapidly burying itself into male muff, and his cheeks hollow as he takes Orlando deep. 

"Fuck!" Orlando barks.

Casey squeaks as hips jerk up into his face.

"Christ, I'm sorry, mate," Orlando pants, working to hold himself still. By way of apology, he reaches to pet Casey's soft tufted hair. 

Orlando's erection has gone from zero to ballistic in a matter of seconds, and he winces at the vacuum pull this little slip of a lad has managed to effect. He props himself on one elbow so that he can watch while he strokes Casey's head. "Look at me, love," he whispers.

Casey's eyes flash upwards, and Orlando groans at the sinful vision of concave cheeks, glistening red lips, and enormous liquid eyes in what might be a questionably legal body. "How old are you, sweetheart?" he asks. "Feel free to indicate with your fingers."

Casey pulls off with a pop. "Eighteen," he gasps, looking up, ducking his chin to lick up Orlando's length.

Orlando twitches. "If it weren't for the worldly ways of your _fellating,_ I'd say you were... _inflating_ that number somewhat."

Casey is all caught up in the slippery sweetness of cock bumping against his lower lip. "Yeah," he breathes. _Fuck,_ he winces, _since when did I become such a verbal retard?_

He dips back into Orlando's slit and they stare at each other while Casey's tongue idles mercilessly, neither really knowing what to make of the other except that this onslaught of extreme making out is really ramping up the urgency to get naked. In a sudden flurry of motion, Orlando reaches out, curling an arm around Casey's neck and strangling him forward to where his mouth lands on Casey's with a wallop, all tongue and fever, and Casey grunts breathlessly at the assault. His eyes are like saucers before they slowly begin to lose focus and settle into the mouth-fucking going on right beneath his nose. 

When Orlando pulls back from his lips, Casey can't bottle a gusty, frustrated groan.

"You really are quite lovely," Orlando whispers, somewhat in awe of Casey's flushed and dishevelled features now that he's got the boy up close and personal.

"I think _you're_ beautiful," Casey blurts breathlessly, then blushes even more. "I'd really like to take your picture," he adds because even though he's now found some words, they're rather ruffled, and the mental dropkick he delivers himself is fierce. 

Orlando frowns. "Now??"

"Fuck, no!" Casey frowns back. "After." 

_Like, after you stick that decently-dressed cock in my ass._

"Ah," Orlando smiles. "You know, a little profanity suits you, Casey my love. I think that next to your fabulously intoxicating eyes, I might just find your mouth the very best part of you. Unless you are harbouring other surprises. Are you, Casey?"

A smile spasms one corner of Casey's lips. How the fuck would he know? He's still trying to figure out how someone as rakishly cool as Orlando would even spend a thought on his case.

"Maybe," Casey stutters.

"Show me," Orlando teases, glancing down quickly and then back at Casey. "Take yourself out and let's see what lurks inside those trousers."

Casey finds the combination of horny and embarrassed remarkably arousing, especially now that Orlando's watching his bitten fingers fumble one-handedly with his button and fly.

"Ooooo, cotton underkecks," Orlando admires, looking up at Casey's stricken face and winking. "Don't let my teasing put you off your game, sweetheart. There's nothing tastier than the sight of a diamond-hard willy straining against tidy whites. Please, show me more."

Casey shimmies on the bench and leans against the wall, working the waist band of his chinos down a little so that he can peel back the edges of his fly.

"May I?" Orlando asks but his hand is already edging downwards, warm palm pressing against the outline of Casey's rigid cock, fingers curling around the covered length.

"Oh Christ," Casey gasps. His head thuds against the changing room wall, hands curling into fists against the seat padding.

"Time, I think, to free willy," Orlando says, and he slowly inches his fingers inside the elastic waistband, revealing the smooth rosy head of Casey's cut cock. He looks at Casey. "You are pretty everywhere, my love," he says quietly. "May I see more?"

Casey can only whimper and turn pleading eyes Orlando's way.

"I'll take that in the affirmative," Orlando murmurs. His hands leave Casey's cock with the elastic sitting right below the upright flushed head, trapping it, and he finishes unzipping Casey's jacket. Then one by one from the bottom up, he slowly undoes each button of Casey's checked shirt, folding back both jacket and button-down to bare Casey's shoulders. "Oh Jesus," he breathes, taking it in.

Casey's chest is heaving, a little drop of cum already settling on the tip of his cock.

"Now _this,_ " Orlando whispers, "is worth a thousand words." 

"Do…something," Casey whispers.

Orlando leans in and licks a stripe from Casey's navel to his collarbone, up over the downy jawline and into his mouth while his hand resettles on Casey's cock, thumb stroking over the glistening tip.

"Oh fuck oh fuck," Casey grinds out against Orlando's lips, thrusting upwards and reaching out at Orlando's vest as far as the peeled-back jacket sleeves will allow. He turns away so that he can just _breathe_ but his offered throat only draws Orlando's lips as if they were magnetized, where he nips and tongues and sucks until he's worked his way back up to Casey's mouth.

By the time they break, Orlando has snogged Casey horizontal and pulled his cock and balls clear of the elastic so that it sits tight beneath them, enhancing the vibrancy of their lift and colour. "So fucking pretty," Orlando admires, and he crawls onto the bench and lowers his hips so that their cocks bobble against each other, collecting both into one ring-bejewelled hand. 

Casey arches because it's just too fucking much. "Do it," he chokes. "Do…me."

Orlando stills, perched on one hand and knees, his other hand gently stroking. "Yeah?" he asks. "Have you done this before, Casey my sweet? Has your tender little arse lost its cherry?"

Casey eyes flash forward at him. "Would I be asking if it hadn't?" he cries out. "Can you just quit talking and fuck me?" 

_Words: located._

_Commitment: warp speed._

"Right," Orlando concurs, kneeling back abruptly, hands on the waist band of Casey's chinos and pulling them off. He's not adverse to a bossy little bottom, quite the contrary: a bit of dirty talk here, a pushy plea there brings a certain spirit of adventure to the proceedings, he always says.

"Let me," Casey mutters, swinging his feet to the floor because he first needs to heel off his sneakers if his pants are to go anywhere. Orlando sits back against the wall mid-bench, watching him with a wry smile. 

"How do you want me?" Casey asks when he's done. "Kneeling on the bench?"

Orlando is busy fishing a packet of lube and a condom from his jeans pocket. He opens both with his teeth and suits up, slicking himself afterwards but keeping some in reserve for when he can get to Casey's ass. He's distracted for a moment by Casey's compact naked limbs. "No," he finally says. "On my lap, facing me so that I can look at you. Leave the socks, though; they're kind of fun. But everything else off, love. I wouldn't want to soil your windcheater." 

Casey hastily strips and swoops down to straddle Orlando. But sitting is difficult on the short width of the bench; there's no space for his feet and shins without parking his ass so far back on Orlando's thighs that he's in danger of slipping right off.

"Here," Orlando says, shimmying forward. "Hands around my neck, I've got you." He wraps one arm around Casey's back and dips his other hand aft of Casey's balls to grease him up. 

Casey huffs long and slow as Orlando probes him, his eyelids fluttering shut, and the next thing he knows, Orlando has lined up and slid his slippery palm around his hips. 

"Oh fuck, yeah," Orlando breathes, slowly pulling Casey onto his cock.

Casey moans because he can feel it on this very first excruciatingly slow inward stroke, that little gold bead as it drags across the bundle of nerves that makes his cock dance every time someone pays it the least amount of attention. The soles of his feet hit the wall and he pushes so that it can drag right back the other way.

"Oh yeah," Orlando groans, "I get it." He curls over Casey, laying the boy down across his lap, and the tangle of jewellery hanging about his neck spills out of his shirt onto Casey's sternum. Wrapping his arms under the wings of Casey's back, he folds his fingers over the shoulder crests and pulls him back onto his cock. 

Casey quivers like a pinned butterfly, hands fisting the wool blend of Orlando's coat tails. "More," he pleads, heels once again pushing at the wall.

They piston back and forth, slowly at first and then with increasing tempo, each inbound pass dragging a moan from Casey and a heated broken gasp from Orlando until Casey finally pleads that Orlando take him in hand and fucking finish it. 

"Sweet, needy Casey," Orlando murmurs with a smile, sitting back a little and reaching into his jacket. He extracts a folded grey handkerchief and flicks it open, laying it softly across Casey's swollen cock. 

The kiss of cool silk is blindingly divine, and Casey arches into Orlando's cupped palm as fingers close around the bunched fabric. 

"Will you mention me when your friends ask about the things you did in London?" Orlando asks. He drives his hips forward in a sharp snap as he tugs Casey's swathed cock. "Will you tell them how you pulled a stranger on the street and fucked him in a shop change room?" 

Casey's eyes close and he grunts as he's jarred once again.

Hoisting one of Casey's legs up onto his shoulder, Orlando stabs him and sighs. "I wager you won't. I fancy you're not the kiss and tattle type, are you my love?" His next stroke is shorter because there's an itchy weight building in his groin, spreading out into his thighs, and he can feel his balls riding up.

"That's not true," Casey gasps. "You… pulled me." His leg slides down to Orlando's elbow as he fists Orlando's hair and pulls him forward, breath gusting across Orlando's mouth. He knows he's about to come all over that fabulous silk.

"Perhaps, yes," Orlando whispers, watching how Casey's orgasm begins to play across his face. His hips stutter, and as Casey fills the handkerchief, his own prick begins to beats its release, and he presses his face into Casey's wildly throbbing neck.

They cling to each other, Orlando so that he can feel all the pulses slowly ebb from Casey's body, Casey for fear that he might melt from Orlando's lap right onto the carpet. Now that the frisson of the moment has peaked and passed, Orlando seems perfectly content to cuddle. But Casey's natural self-consciousness creeps back over him, and he pushes at a woollen shoulder. "Let me up," he says.

Orlando growls against his throat. "If you insist," he sulks, unfolding, a grimace passing as Casey disengages and slips onto the bench beside him. They sit silently, staring at the curtain.

"Do you think anyone heard?" Casey whispers.

"That would be nice," Orlando replies, turning to look down at him with a smirk. "Cock up their day a little."

"Oh god."

"What? At the very least, you can walk out of here, proud that you got a little mid-day poke and tickle."

"It's so indiscreet."

"Bit late, mate." Orlando gathers up the condom and wraps it in the handkerchief, lobbing both into a small waste bin in the corner. Casey tracks the toss, eyebrows raising. He glances at Orlando.

"It would soil my pocket," Orlando says simply, cavalier at the loss of such a lovely hankie. 

He stands, zipping up and stretches his back and shoulders. Then dipping down, he lifts Casey's chin, kissing him softly, and removes his gloves and Casey's camera from his hat, which he sets on his head. Pocketing his gloves and placing the camera on the seat pad, he is out the curtain before Casey can think of anything to say.

Casey sits, rather stunned, listening to the canned music playing in the store. Now that he's alone, he's feeling more than a little sullied by it all and very disappointed. He reaches for his underwear and begins to get dressed.

He's just slipping on his windbreaker when the curtain slides open and Orlando rejoins him.

"You forgot your walking stick," Casey says, eyes averted, indicating with his chin.

Orlando dumps an armful of clothes onto the banquette, a hodge-podge of studded leather and silk, velvet and mesh. "Had to guess your size," he says. "I was so very, very tempted to pull from the ladies rack."

Casey stares at the jumble of clothing. "I don't get it," he finally says.

"Casey," Orlando feigns sternly, his hand gesticulating back and forth between the two of them. "Do you seriously think that we're done with each other?"

_Well fuck,_ Casey smiles.


End file.
